


And I know that I'm right 'cause I hear it in the night.

by APictureofaGull



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Deputy Derek, F/F, Future Fic, POV Lydia, Teen Wolf Rare Pair November, magical coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APictureofaGull/pseuds/APictureofaGull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia moves back to Beacon Hills after college and life is pretty boring until her banshee powers drag her to the scene of a mysterious murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I know that I'm right 'cause I hear it in the night.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic mentions magical coercion, but it's not sexual, it's mental manipulation. Thought I should warn for it just in case.

Lydia scrolls through her Facebook news feed with little interest; more interest than she gave this afternoon’s conversation with her mom about Mrs Thompson’s new boyfriend but that conversation achieved a record low in Lydia’s interest for the last two months. Photos of Allison and her fucking fabulous life in New York, protecting the innocents or whatever with her massive gun empire cover Lydia’s screen. Next comes Danny who apparently had a fun day at the Ontario Science Centre with his _daughter_. It reminds Lydia that two of her sorority sisters from MIT have kids. Scott has _three_ , Stiles calls them a litter and actually thinks that’s funny. Since Lydia came back from her postgrad at Cambridge--it was cheaper and more interesting than any of her offers in the US--she can count on one hand the weekends she hasn’t spent at weddings. Lydia bites her lip and takes another sip of her diet coke--the only thing she could find in the fridge--and closes Facebook. She gives her application for an atmospheric chemistry and dynamics position with NASA one last look over. She sneers a little at the idea of living in Newport News, Virginia before clicking submit.

 

Heaving a sigh, she grabs her keys, adjusts her hair in the hall mirror then goes to the grocery store. At this hour she can hopefully avoid her friends’ parents or her parents' friends, smirking happily when they hear that _yes_ she’s still unemployed and _no_ she isn’t seeing anyone and oh how wonderful, _their_ kids have their lives all figured out. She imagines them at home playing Bunko or drinking themselves into a coma at the thought of their sad, suburban lives.

 

Lydia assesses the fresh fruit and vegetables section; she can’t see anyone over the age of forty and smiles happily. Her face falls when she spots Mr Greenberg picking up a roast chicken. Last time Lydia saw him she may or may not have given him a very condensed, very angry summary of studies concerning sexism with a focus on STEM fields in response to ‘you’re a pretty girl, I’m sure it’d be easy for you to get a Ph.D.’ Mr Greenberg looks up from his cart, sees Lydia then ducks into frozen food. Lydia smiles down at her blueberries and makes her way over to dairy to find some Greek yogurt.

 

She is 5’6” in her heels, a full one and half inches taller than the national average for women, yet somehow the asshole that designed this supermarket decided to put the Greek yogurt at about two inches beyond her reach. She looks around and spots a pimply teenaged staff member who doesn’t look busy. For a moment she considers asking him to get it for her while he stares at her breasts the entire time and probably drops the yogurt. And the whole process will probably take _forever_. So Lydia looks through her purse until she finds her Cambridge student ID card hanging on a lanyard. She unhooks the card, and tests the weight of the clip in her hand, before throwing the lanyard up and over the tub of yogurt. Just as she’s getting ready to pull it down into her waiting hand, someone behind her asks, “Do you want a hand?”

 

“No.” She pops the yogurt into her hand and transfers it to her basket before turning around, fully expecting to see a flustered, pubescent boy tell her ‘that was awesome.’

 

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Derek--Derek Hale--says. Any respect Lydia has for Sheriff Stilinski’s ability to make good decisions vanishes completely when her brain processes Derek’s clothes: a gold bar with ‘HALE’ carved in it over his right pectoral muscle and his tie tucked into his khaki shirt behind the second button. It seems like deputy’s uniforms don’t come in Derek’s standard shrink-wrapped to his body fit. He smiles; what the actual fuck?

 

“Good, that’s the way I like it.” She moves some of her hair behind her back as she speaks. Derek frowns and furrows his brow. “Are you forgetting your _evil_ uncle who you continued to hang out with after he fucked with my mind to bring himself back to life or the time you tried to get my classmates to kill me during _chemistry_ , or the time--”

 

“I get it,” Derek spits.

 

“Perfect.” Lydia adjusts her blueberries then looks him in the eye, daring him to try and have the last word. Derek breaks eye contact. Forcing a smile, Lydia walks off to find some pecans.

///

The doorbell rings and Lydia looks up for a second then turns the page of her book. Then it rings again, so Lydia gets up from her bed and smooths her skirt before answering the door.

 

“Lydia Martin?” The man, not much older than Lydia, asks.

 

“That’s me,” she says, taking in his navy polo shirt with Beacon Florists--relatively expensive and tasteful for Beacon Hills--embroidered above the breast pocket.

 

He smiles. “Great. I’ll be right back.”

 

Lydia nods then watches him as he bounces back to his van. The stench of lilies hits her before he turns around with a bouquet of white lilies and roses and various dark green leaves nestled in one arm; his other hand clutches a clipboard. It takes Lydia not insignificant effort to keep her expression blank.

 

“If you could sign here please Ms Martin.” He passes her the clipboard and a pen. She signs then exchanges the clipboard for the heavier than expected flowers.

 

The moment she hears the van door snap shut, Lydia stops smiling and peels back the pink tissue paper surrounding the bouquet, like the layers of an onion, looking for some sort of explanation. Eventually she finds a small candy green card with the words ‘Sorry -Derek’ printed on it. She crumples it in her fist. A breeze wafts the lily smell--the all too familiar scent of death--into her face. She walks to the side of the house and discards the flowers in the garbage then she throws the card in after them.

///

At four in the morning, Lydia wakes up with her mouth open, her lungs full of a scream. She heaves an exasperated sigh, and pulls on a pair of black leggings and an oversized grey sweater. “I’m coming,” she mutters to the rhythmic Gaelic chanting that fills her head. After texting Allison, she clips a small GPS tracker to her bra, pulls her night-vision goggles around her neck and makes her way out to her car. She drives, letting the drum of chanting guide her to the preserve. The chanting grows louder and louder, eventually drowning out all sound around Lydia as she moves as quietly as possible toward a point that seems fixed in her consciousness.

 

As Lydia jumps to avoid stepping in steaming pile of horse dung, the chanting stops, but she still feels the pull of the spot. She groans and stamps her feet as quietly as possible before composing herself. Clouds of her breath trail behind her as she runs to the edge of the pond. A body bobs ominously in the unstill water. Letting her mouth fall open, Lydia unleashes the scream that has been surging inside her chest since she woke up.

 

Then Lydia slumps against a tree facing away from the body and calls Sheriff Stilinski. While she waits she sends Allison another text so she won’t worry. Short, shrill peeps from an Argent tracking device announce the sheriff’s arrival. Lydia pulls her night vision goggles over her eyes again and sees the sheriff and Deputy Derek trudging toward her through the mulch. She pushes herself back to her feet then brushes the dirt from her hands off against her leggings.

 

Derek strides past the sheriff. “Have you checked if they’re dead?”

 

The sheriff comes up to Lydia and gives her a quick, curt nod; Lydia pats his arm in return. Then she turns to Derek. “I’m a banshee.” With her tone she adds ‘you idiot.’

 

Water laps around the sheriff’s boots as he takes three careful steps into the pond, pointing his flashlight into the woods. “Did you see anything?”

 

Lydia shakes her head. “No, didn’t make it in time. Whatever it was vanished before I got here.”

 

“And you’re sure it’s supernatural?” the sheriff asks.

 

Lydia nods again. “Banshee’s can only feel death if it involves the supernatural.”

 

The sheriff nods, rubbing his fingertips over his forehead. “I wish I had remembered that wrong.” He takes a few more steps into the pond, getting about a foot from the body, the water barely covering his ankles. Twisting around, he looks at Derek. “Make sure Lydia gets home safe, then come back here. I’ll call forensics.”

 

At first Lydia and Derek drive in a thick silence, Derek staring at the road ahead and flinching occasionally when Lydia commits a minor traffic infringement. Lydia ignores him.

 

“I'm assuming the stony silence is because you liked the flowers so much you’re speechless,” he states.

 

Lydia smiles grimly. “They went straight into the garbage.” Derek winces again.

 

“I tried.” His jaw clenches, making his face look unattractively square.

 

“I don’t award points for effort.” Lydia glances over at Derek making eye contact for a brief moment. “White Lilies? Completely putting aside the double reference to death there, it ranked in the top five tackiest bouquets I’ve ever received.” She pauses to let Derek defend his choice, he doesn’t. “It wasn’t worse than when you tried to be alpha, so at least you're improving.”

 

In the shifting street lights Lydia can’t be sure if Derek’s eyes flash blue, but she definitely hears him growl. “But you haven't become any less of a bitch.”

 

Lydia raises an eyebrow. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Then she pretends to think. “Oh, wait, no that’s right, you’re entire family is either dead, or avoiding you in South America.”

 

Growling louder, Derek leans toward her, long teeth bared. Lydia’s knuckles bulge around the steering wheel and her nails dig into her hands. Taking a deep breath, she forces her hands loose and consciously controls the rhythm of her breathing.

 

As if burnt, Derek’s jaw slackens suddenly, his teeth retreating back to bluntness. He pulls away from Lydia, his shoulder presses against the window. After a few moments of tense silence he mumbles, “Cora’s back. We’re living together again.” He smiles for half an instant when he says ‘we’.

 

Lydia takes her eyes off the road and stares at Derek still curled up against the window. “I never thought much of her judgement,” she wants to say, but the words stick to her tongue. “Good,” she says instead. “She made you more human.” For the rest of the drive, neither of them speaks; Derek stares out his window.

 

Sunlight just peeks over the horizon when Lydia pulls her car into the driveway. The moment Lydia puts the car in park Derek opens his door and runs off down the the street at superhuman speed. Lydia goes back to her bed and sleeps for two fitful hours.

///

They meet again in the feminine hygiene aisle of the supermarket. “Victim blaming,” Derek says too quickly, his nails puncturing the box of pads he’s holding with both hands. Lydia just stares. Derek makes an obvious effort to stand straight while he drops the pads into his basket. “I mean, that’s what I did. I blamed you for,” he pauses. “For Peter, when actually he violated you. I should not have excused his behaviour or held what he did to you against you.”

 

Lydia looks up at him while clapping her hands, slow and sarcastic. “Which less emotionally stunted person finally invited you to the party?”

 

“Ms McCall,” Derek mumbles, looking away. He straightens again and looks back down at Lydia. “I’m making a commitment to change my behaviour.” Lydia rolls her eyes and walks away. Derek doesn’t follow.

///

Lydia lounges by the side of her mom’s pool in her swimsuit reading the autopsy report the sheriff sent her. Rationally, sitting next to the swimming pool shouldn’t bother her just because the victim drowned, but it still makes her skin prickle. The police found alcohol in his system, but not enough to explain drowning in one and a half feet of water. Lydia flips through the now fully translated, updated and added to bestiary, trying to find an explanation for what looks like the only obviously supernatural part of the report: the victim’s severely frostbitten left hand. Everything else--his numerous unpaid parking tickets, pocket full of gum wrappers, and prior arrest for a bar fight--she leaves to the police. She takes a sip of her now severely watered down iced tea and looks out beyond the fence into the forest, willing the trees to give her an answer.

 

Leaves rustle; someone grunts and heaves deep breaths. Lydia glances toward the sounds, ready to greet Dr Deaton on his Saturday afternoon run. Instead of Deaton’s sweats and UC Berkeley t-shirt, she sees an attractive woman in a sports bra, running leggings and sky blue shorts: the definition of annoying, self-righteous running addict. Her dark brown ponytail swings in time with her breathing. Lydia looks back down at her casefile. A few seconds later the woman calls, “Hi Lydia,” between even, deep breaths. She continues to run past the fence, one arm waving slightly at Lydia.

 

Lydia takes a second look. “Cora?”

 

Cora stops running, plucks her earbuds from her ears and jogs up to the fence. Lydia looks up at Cora, who jumps from foot to foot, trying to keep her muscles warm. “If Derek sent you, I’m not interested in hearing any more of his apology,” Lydia says before she pointedly returns her attention to the Yeti entry in the bestiary.

 

The way Cora’s brows push together makes her look a lot like Derek. “I’m just running.” Unconvinced, Lydia raises her eyebrows. Cora shrugs. “He’s not my alpha; I don’t have to run his errands for him anymore.” She stands on her tiptoes and leans over the fence. “Is that the file on Derek’s dead guy?”

 

Lydia nods absently, trying to find any reference to producing extreme cold in the entry. She doesn’t notice when Cora invites herself into the backyard, until she drops onto the deck chair across from Lydia. “The hand thing is important,” Cora mumbles, flipping through the case file. When Lydia ignores her, Cora leans forward and tilts her head to try and read the bestiary. “It wasn’t a Yeti.”

 

Suppressing a groan, Lydia looks up. “And you know this how?”

 

Pausing to swallow the sip of Lydia’s iced tea she just took, Cora shrugs. “There’s something similar in the Amazon, Mapinguari. If one of those gets its hands on someone the body ends up _bruised_. Besides, people-y creatures don’t generally like water.”

 

Lydia nods slowly, looking up at Cora. “They’re called crypto-hominids,” Lydia corrects. After hesitating for a moment, she moves to sit next to Cora on the deck chair she claimed. Lydia places the tablet with the bestiary on it between them and starts flicking through pages. “Well I can’t think of anything else to explain the frostbite. A creature that produces cold seems to go against the first law of thermodynamics.”

 

Claws sprout from Cora’s hand, she wiggles her fingers. “Because physics can explain werewolves.”

 

“Physics can explain everything,” Lydia says without a second thought. “Just because we don’t understand it yet doesn’t mean-” Then she screams and screams and screams.

 

A shudder runs through Cora, she flinches away from Lydia. When Lydia regains control of her lungs, she sighs deeply and stands. The rhythmic chanting in Lydia’s head drowns out what Cora says if she says anything at all. Lydia runs back into the house, strips off her dry bathing suit and pulls on a different leggings and a comfortable knit dress. She slips on some sensible shoes, grabs the tracker and her car keys before running out the front door. Outside she finds Cora leaning against her car, eyebrows raised.

 

“You just wasted four minutes getting changed when someone is going to die,” Cora says.

 

Lydia rolls her eyes and ducks into the car. She moves to put the car in drive, but stops when Cora slides into the passenger’s seat and buckles her seatbelt. “What do you think you’re doing?” Lydia demands.

 

Cora furrows her brow. “Helping.”

 

For a moment Lydia contemplates shoving Cora bodily out of the car, but decides having a werewolf escort might be useful. They drive for fifteen minutes, neither of them speaking before the chanting in Lydia’s head suddenly cuts off again. She groans and slams a hand against the dashboard.

 

“They’re dead?” Cora asks, brows knitted.

 

Lydia nods and keeps driving until they reach the locked community swimming pool. Through the chain link fence Lydia sees a body bobbing in the sloshing water. She pulls her car into the field behind the pool, scattering a couple grazing horses in the process. “It must have just left; can you find its scent or something?” Lydia demands the moment Cora gets out of the car.

 

Solemnly, Cora shakes her head. “Chlorine overpowers almost everything.” Without a further word she scales the fence, drops with a soft thud to the cement floor and walks over to the locked gate. She holds the chain locking the gate in both hands and pulls. The chain groans and yields then snaps apart. Cora pushes the gate open walks to the edge of the pool, her cell phone in her hand. “Come and look.” Cora gives Lydia a confused look, pointing at the open gate with her phone, before pressing it to her ear. “Derek, I’m at the pool on Jefferson with Lydia, there’s another one.”

 

“Derek’s on his way,” Cora informs Lydia, who has already rushed through the gate.

 

Lydia steps onto the diving board and walks to the end; she bends double to try and get a clearer view of the body. Blood seeps from the open wound where the person’s face must have been; Lydia swallows her own vomit. But she continues moving down the board to get a better look at the victim’s hands. The fingers on the left hand are engulfed in plastic like blisters: frostbite. Lydia steels herself, ready to take a closer look at the facial wounds, when Cora whispers, “Someone’s coming.”

 

Cora could scale the fence again, run off into the slowly darkening day and be safe. Instead she helps Lydia to her feet and asks, “What do we do?” Lydia shrugs.

 

A Beacon County branded sedan pulls into the parking lot and a middle-aged white man in a suit storms out. “Hey! This is county property, the pool is closed!” he shouts as he marches toward Lydia and Cora. “ _Oh god, is that?_ ” he stops, turns away, then turns back toward the pool, covering his nose and mouth with his hand.

 

Lydia steps forward to meet him, hand outstretched. “Agent Martin, California Bureau of Investigation. And my colleague, Agent Hale,” Lydia tilts her head toward Cora, who gives a curt professional nod. Then Lydia steers the man, his eyes wide, so he faces away from the pool.

 

He shakes her hand limply. “Darren Foley, Beacon County parks and recreation department.” His attention shifts over Lydia’s shoulder to Cora; he beings to look suspicious of Cora’s running gear.

 

“We’re off duty,” Lydia explains and his eyes snap back to her. “Agent Hale was out jogging and discovered the body. She called me and local law enforcement. They should be arriving in the next few minutes.”

 

Foley sighs and rubs his forehead. “This is a nightmare. We just cleaned the pool after all the dead animals. This is going to break our budget.”

 

“Remember to tell Sheriff Stilinski about the dead animals,” Lydia tells him, scanning the street for sheriff department vehicles.

 

Cora comes up to stand next to Lydia, her arms folded across her chest. “What dead animals?” she asks, ignoring the small shove Lydia gives her foot.

 

“Oh.” Foley scratches the back of his head. “We’ve been finding dead animal parts in the filters. It happens, usually birds, rats and frogs, but recently the maintenance guys pulled out half a cat then a week later a possum head, and two days ago they found a torn up raccoon.”

 

Cora nods. “It’s probably another animal. Coyote slipping under the fence.” To Lydia, the lie is obvious, but Foley nods looking relieved.

 

A few seconds later a sheriff’s department vehicle pulls into the parking lot and Derek steps out. He heads straight for Cora. “Are you alright? You're not hurt?” he asks, putting his hand on her shoulder. Cora moves away, rolling her eyes.

 

Foley’s face lights up; with the body still bobbing in Lydia’s line of sight above Foley’s shoulder she can feel the bile rising in her throat again. “I’m sure your lovely wife can take care of herself Deputy Hale,” he chirps, treating Cora to a look so patronising it hurts. “Darren Foley, Beacon County parks and recreation.”

 

“She’s my sister,” Derek growls, ignoring Foley’s offered handshake. Just out of Foley’s line of sight Lydia can see Cora mouth, “maul him,” to Derek.

 

Foley barrels on, completely unphased. “Oh, well jobs have a habit of running in families, don’t they? My sister is the mayor’s secretary.” He turns to address Lydia, missing the confused and angry look Derek gives Cora, “Thank you Agent Martin, I think Deputy Hale can take it from here.”

 

Lydia can’t even muster the energy to say anything biting, the completely wordless conversation between Cora and Derek distracts her too much.

 

Once Cora and Derek stop raising eyebrows and wrinkling noses at each other Derek turns to Lydia. “Go home; I’ll get your statements tomorrow.”

 

Cora and Lydia continue to theorise about the bodies right up until Lydia pulls up outside Cora’s building. “Let’s go for drinks,” Lydia suggests. Cora stops unfastening her seatbelt and furrows her brow but doesn’t speak. “It’s ladies night at Smith’s, I’ll see you there at seven. Wear something cute.”

 

Cora snorts, but agrees.

///

Cora already has a whisky and coke and a table when Lydia arrives at Smith’s. Lydia goes to the bar to get a drink. While she waits she takes a couple glances at the gorgeous woman sitting on a stool at the other end of the bar. The amount of product her purple tinted, swept back white-blonde hair is a bit much--it looks almost wet--but she has a runner’s thighs and a long, arrogant face with heavy lashes that make Lydia want to smile and twist her hair in her fingers. The woman smiles back. After hesitating for a moment Lydia picks up her vodka and cranberry juice and drops into the seat across from Cora.

 

“Glad to see you have deemed my outfit cute enough,” Cora deadpans.

 

Lydia makes a show of running her eyes over Cora then she shrugs. “I’d say passable. Seven out of ten,” she lies. Cora snorts and rolls her eyes, but Lydia sees her hide a smile in the sip of her drink.

 

“Derek and Stiles’s dad think it’s a lake monster,” Cora says after a few seconds of mildly uncomfortable silence.

 

“And you think they’re wrong.”

 

Cora nods, smiling for half a second. “It wouldn’t have been able to hide in the pond or pool. And how would it get from the preserve to the pool on Jefferson?”

 

Lydia tilts her head and suppresses a smile. “It would have to be amphibious.”

 

“A kappa?” Cora suggests.

 

After thinking for a moment, Lydia frowns. “Maybe. Did Derek mention the sex of the victim in the pool?”

 

“Male.”

 

Lydia shakes her head. “Even though two data points are hardly a meaningful sample size, I think it isn’t a kappa. They generally go after women and children.” She pauses for a moment. “You might be on to something with the luring to bodies of water idea though. A Naiad maybe?”

 

Cora draws her eyebrows together “I thought they captured and kept men, not ate them.”

 

“You’re right.” Lydia groans, letting her face drop into her hands. A little later, she sits up again, and looks at Cora for a few moments. “You hungry?”

 

Cora shrugs. “I could eat.”

 

Lydia gets up, grabbing her wallet from her purse. “I’ll get us some chips and dip.”

 

“Queso,” Cora insists.

 

Lydia twists her hair around her finger. “You’re now officially my favourite werewolf.” Cora rolls her eyes and smiles.

 

Lydia caught the beautiful woman at the bar glancing at Lydia and Cora several times since she sat down, in a manner that, not unlike her bizarre hair style, lacked subtlety. As Lydia orders their cheesy goodness, she takes another quick look at the woman, and finds her completely in engrossed the adorable face Cora makes while poking the lime in her whisky and coke with the straw. Lydia takes a deep breath, checks that she still looks gorgeous in the mirror behind the bar then goes back to Cora.

 

“You know, torturing that lime will probably only get it to tell you exactly what it thinks you want to hear. Not to mention it’s highly unethical,” Lydia teases as she drops their snack onto the table between them.

 

Cora snorts and looks away. “Ha ha,” she deadpans. After a few moments of not entirely comfortable silent chewing, Lydia decides to steer back to the safe topic of the murders again. But Cora speaks first, “So what have you been doing? Invented a new kind of math yet? Had any particles named after you?”

 

Lydia can’t tell if Cora’s serious, it unnerves her. “No. I have a master’s degree in mathematical physics and no job and I’ve moved back in with my mom. But,” she adds with forced cheeriness, “my thesis won the IOP prize for the group.”

 

Cora draws her eyebrows together, “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

 

Lydia tilts her head, “Not unless you care about physics. Which I’m guessing you don’t.” Cora’s face says ‘no shit.’ “Apparently I’m being too picky to get a job.” Lydia shakes off her bitterness at being passed over for the paid PhD position she had so desperately wanted because apparently _she wouldn’t fit in_. Like they were doing her a favour, like Lydia couldn’t easily become queen of any social group she wanted to. Cora gives Lydia a worried look, so she changes the subject, “What about you?”

 

“I’m an EMT.” Cora pauses. “I mean, I was before I came back here. Beacon County doesn’t need any right now. So instead of working I’ve been abusing my library card. The grumpy old librarian looked like she wanted to stage an intervention last week when I checked out the twelfth Tamora Pierce book in a row.”

 

“Then why’d you come back?”

 

Cora grimaces. “Pack rivalries. I didn’t join the local pack when I moved into Derek and Laura’s old apartment. They ran me out of town eventually. Other packs don’t respect Hales anymore. Peter,” she snaps a chip in half with frightening violence as she says the name, “fucked over everything Laura and mom built.” Cora stuffs her mouth and pulverises the tortilla chips.

 

Lydia reaches her hand across the table toward Cora’s. She brushes their fingers together first then, when Cora doesn’t pull away, she tangles them together and squeezes.

///

Covering her mouth, Lydia stifles a yawn: her third of the evening.

 

Cora laughs. “Go home, get some sleep.”

 

Lydia tries to glare at her, but can’t stop smiling. “It’s only ten.”

 

“And you haven’t been sleeping because you’re worried someone is going to shake you out of bed so they can die,” Cora reasons with eerie accuracy. “Go, I can finish my drink alone.”

 

Lydia considers doing the selfish thing for a few long moments but doesn’t. “You don’t have to be alone, if you don’t want to be.”

 

Cora smiles and leans forward. “Yeah?”

 

Lydia leans in as well, looking at Cora through her eyelashes for effect. “The gorgeous hipster sitting at the bar can’t keep her eyes off you,” Lydia whispers before getting up and plucking her phone from her purse.

 

For a brief moment Cora’s smile falters then it bounces back into place. “Thanks.”

 

Lydia makes her way out the door, finding the number for the cab company in her phone. When Cora calls her name, Lydia turns, her phone pressed to her ear.

 

“I’ll see you soon?” Cora asks, fidgeting with the hem of her tanktop.

 

“Definitely,” Lydia assures her with a smile, before taking her hand off her hair and booking the cab home.

///

Lydia lies in her bed, completely exhausted, staring at the ceiling. She keeps imagining Cora’s laugh, deep and more snort than voice, in response to something the blonde from the bar says. She needs a distraction. Groaning, she throws off the covers and grabs the bestiary and a note pad. First she writes out all the creatures that have anything to do with water, then circles any that lure men: Sirens, Naiads, Nymphs, Kelpies, Mermaids, Selkies and Nixes. Lydia almost smacks the notebook against her face, she should have noticed the strange abundance of horses and horse dung at both scenes: a kelpie.

 

Suddenly, Lydia grabs her phone and dials the sheriff, Derek answers. “She’s a kelpie! The murderer, she’s a kelpie and Cora’s on a date with her.” The words tumble out of Lydia’s mouth before Derek finishes his greeting.

 

“Where?” Derek demands.

 

For a moment Lydia gapes. “You’re not going to ask how I know?”

 

“Do you _really_ need me to tell you you’re always right? Cora could get hurt. Where. Is. She?”

 

“Smith’s: the bar on Redwood Highway.”

 

Derek hangs up without another word. For a few moments Lydia paces around her room. “Fuck it,” she mumbles to herself before throwing on her leggings and dress again and calling another cab.

 

Derek’s patrol car spans across two spaces outside Smith’s. At the bar Derek looms over the bartender; she cowers and keeps glancing back at the door with ‘STAFF ONLY’ written on it.

 

“We’re looking for a woman that was here earlier, the one with the purplish hair, and long face. She was sitting at the bar,” Lydia explains, placing herself between Derek and the bartender.

 

The woman straightens a little, eyes still wide as she looks at Lydia. “Her name’s Maeve, she’s kind of a regular, moved here three weeks ago.”

 

“Do you have last name? An address? Any information that would actually be useful?” Derek demands.

 

“Douglas, Maeve Douglas. I think,” the woman shrugs, continuing to address Lydia. “She usually goes home with someone, I don’t know her address. She left with your friend tonight.”

 

Derek opens his mouth; Lydia elbows him lightly in the side and cuts him off, “Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.”

 

Outside in Derek’s car he says, “That was a waste of time.” His knuckles go white around the steering wheel and his claws draw blood as they dig into his palms.

 

“We’ll find her,” Lydia insists, despite her desperately pounding heart. “She’s not in danger yet, or I’d be screaming, and if I do, we’ll know where she is.”

 

“I need to find her _alive_!” Derek growls.

 

Lydia opens her mouth to retort but instead she screams; rhythmic chanting pounds in her head. The scream still echoing through her, Lydia points her arm in the direction death drags her. First Derek flinches, but then he wraps one arm around his ears as best he can and speeds down Redwood Highway in the direction Lydia indicates. By the time Lydia stops screaming, the chanting grows so loud she can’t even hear the wail of the siren. Derek drives, pale face staring out into the empty road.

 

After about four minutes they reach the empty, dark city park and Lydia tells Derek to stop the car. They both start running toward the locked gate, heading for the ornamental fountain. Derek jumps over the fence without breaking stride, leaving Lydia far behind, taking his beta form as his breath puffs around him.

 

Almost immediately after Lydia scrambles over the fence the chanting stops. Lydia bites her lip hard and wills herself to keep running with the thought that she can’t let the kelpie _eat_ Cora’s body. The wind stings Lydia’s eyes and she fights her way around the kid’s playground into the park.

 

In the distance, she sees a werewolf fighting a large ghostly, glistening horse at the far end of the park. Lydia’s breath hitches when she spots Derek at the other end, near the fountain. With renewed urgency Lydia runs until she can’t breathe, reaching Cora and Derek as the kelpie gallops off into the park, trailing shimmering blood on the grass.

 

“I almost had her!” Cora shouts, clenching her blood-soaked, clawed fists.

 

“Cora,” Derek sighs, looping his arm around Cora’s waist as she stumbles to her feet. Cora leans in to him, tucking her head against his chest as he wipes the blood off her hands with his undershirt.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Lydia wheezes when she finally has enough air in her lungs to speak. “I had no idea what she was, I swear.”

 

Cora and Derek roll their eyes in unison; Lydia starts to wonder which part of their mutual upbringing made Cora and Derek communicate primarily in exaggerated eye-rolls. Her giddy, adrenaline soaked brain starts drafting an experiment. Derek turns away from Lydia to inspect Cora’s quickly disappearing wounds. Once he deems her sufficiently unharmed, he sighs. His eyes dart along the track of hoof prints and blood. “Cora, drive Lydia home. I probably won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon,” he says, brushing hair off Cora’s forehead. “You’ll be okay?”

 

Cora nods. “Stay safe.” She reaches for Lydia’s hand, but stops and shoves her hand into the pocket of her hoodie with a little too much force instead. A few stitches in the seams snaps.

 

In Derek’s patrol car, Lydia’s heart finally settles. She wants to ask questions about Maeve and what happened to Cora, but Cora’s eyes keep flicking from the unturned key in the ignition to her hands to Lydia and Lydia asks, “Do you want me to drive?”

 

“No.” Cora taps her fingers against the steering wheel, looking out into the dark road. She groans. “Do you want to go home?”

 

“Where else would I go?”

 

“My apartment,” Cora says, as if it’s the only logical option. “I was going to get you to come home with me by telling you I wanted to clean your cuts properly and then get you to help me plan to get that Kelpie. But I think one mythical creature getting a woman to go home with her on false pretences is enough for the night.” Cora shrugs; her tone aims for joking and falls flat.

 

Lydia looks down at her ripped leggings which expose grit filled scrapes on both her knees. It suggests she fell while running, but she doesn’t remember it happening. A bit of data from their three hour mutual heart outpouring at Smith’s bobs up to the top of Lydia’s--apparently still not quite together--mind. “It would be silly of me to try and clean them myself when an EMT is offering to do it for me.”

 

Cora blinks at Lydia a couple times before ducking her head to hide a small smile. The engine roars as Cora starts the car. All her earlier nervous movements have melted away.

 

“It would help if we understood her modus operandi. You don’t mind talking about it, do you?” Lydia asks, dropping the curl she had been twisting in her fingers.

 

“I don’t mind,” Cora says then continues before Lydia can offer any encouragement, “I waited until I was sure you got a cab, then I went up to the bar, asked her if she minded if I took the seat next to her. She started talking to me. I just wanted to talk to her, finish my drink, and maybe ask for her number. But I just couldn’t leave; I had another drink that I really didn’t want. Then suddenly I was in the park for a romantic moonlight stroll. I’m a werewolf; I do not find moonlight romantic.” Cora’s sincere expression suggests she wants very much for Lydia to understand that last fact.

 

“So she has some kind of coercion powers, like a siren,” Lydia states, filing the data away to add to the bestiary later.

 

Cora nods once then her eyes go wide. “Fuck! Derek.” For a moment it looks like she might do a U-turn in the middle of the busy road. Lydia’s hand flies toward the steering wheel, but after Cora drums her fingers on the steering wheel a few times she seems calmer. Lydia drops her hand back in her lap. “My phone’s in the pocket of my hoodie. Get it out and call Derek please. He needs to know,” Cora says, her voice too even.

 

Lydia does as requested without argument or question. Her neck itches a little; she rubs it while she talks to Derek. “He says he’ll ask Deaton about protecting himself. And thanks for the warning,” For a few moments the air hangs heavy between them. In an effort to clear it, Lydia says, “So you were at the park, then what happened?”

 

“We walked and talked some more and I reached out to hold her hand.” Cora presses her eyes closed and shakes her head. “It was so _cold_ , I tried to pull away, but it was stuck. Then all of a sudden she was a big slimy horse. I changed, and my hand came free.”

 

“The heat from the transformation,” Lydia mumbles, mostly to herself. Cora tilts her head a little, blinking at Lydia. “When you transform, some of the energy going into the process is dissipated as heat, that’s why werewolves have higher heat signature when transformed. The heat probably broke the bond between your hand and her skin,” Lydia explains.

 

Cora shrugs. “Okay.” Lydia rolls her hands, indicating that Cora should continue. “That’s the end.” Cora pulls into a space outside her building. “I tried to rip her throat out and failed then you and Derek showed up.”

When Cora slots the key into the door she turns to Lydia and deadpans, “I’m never letting you set me up with anyone again.”

 

While Lydia processes, Cora pushes open the door and lets herself in. Lydia decides that Cora is teasing, and marches into the apartment after her. “Back in sophomore year you said my taste was terrible, so you should have known,” she counters, pouting a little.

 

Cora grins and points to an armchair. “Sit, I’ll go get the first aid box,” she suggests before leaving the room.

 

Lydia drops into the very comfortable chair and resists the urge to curl up and go to sleep. The sensible part of her makes her roll her leggings up above her knees. Cora appears again with a small plastic box and kneels next to Lydia. “I assumed your taste has improved since we were seventeen,” Cora teases--completely straight again--as she sets to work on Lydia’s scrapes.

 

“It has,” Lydia replies primly, once the rushing novelty of Cora’s very competent touch stops interfering with Lydia’s ability to speak. “But I’m not infallible.” That startles a soft chuckle out of Cora.

 

“Done,” Cora says finally before she starts packing up the box.

 

Lydia feels suddenly cold; she rolls down her ripped leggings again. “Thanks.”

 

“Now,” Cora says, pulling two brown folders off the coffee table and handing them to Lydia, “here are copies of the case files from the victim you found in the forest and the one from the pool today.”

 

Lydia flips through the new file briefly. “If you’re going to catch her you’ll need a bridle.” Cora’s brows draw together, so Lydia explains, “Because that’s the only way to trap a Kelpie.”

 

Cora shakes her head. “We’re going to kill her.”

 

Lydia almost laughs with shock. “I will not help you commit murder.” When Cora looks disappointed, Lydia stands and starts toward the door.

 

“ _She’s_ a murderer!” Cora insists, balling desperate fists.

 

“Well I’m not.” Lydia walks out into the hallway, closing the door behind her with a satisfying click.

 

In seconds, Cora catches up with her. Her lips pressed together so hard they lose colour. “You would have been fine with it if I killed her an hour ago.”

 

Lydia whips around. “Because she was trying to kill you!”

 

Cora groans and balls her fists again. “What about the town’s safety?”

 

“No,” Lydia states simply. “It doesn’t work like that.” She wants to leave. Storm off and say she never wants to see Cora again. Except she does.

 

Cora’s face hardens. “Okay, fine. If I promise not to kill her, will you help me?”

 

“Isn’t this Derek’s job?” Lydia stops her march toward the outside, crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at Cora.

 

“And he’s done _great_ so far,” Cora bites. “But _you_ have. You’re a genius; you can stop her before someone else dies.”

 

Lydia unfolds her arms. “Say I agree.” Cora’s face untenses, so Lydia speeds up, “Which doesn’t mean I will. I can barely run a mile, telling you you’ll need a bridle is probably about as useful as I can be.”

 

A smile creeps at the corners of Cora’s mouth. “I’m not asking you to do any running. I’ll do that. I want you to be there, telling me what to do.”

 

“And you want use the fact that I’m death’s homing beacon.”

 

“That will be helpful,” Cora admits. “But I really need your brain. We’ll use walkie talkies. You’ll drive, I’ll run. We’ll catch her and give her to the sheriff.”

 

“Okay, first, I can’t drive; I’ve had too much to drink too recently. Second, why do you even have walkie talkies? They’re basically obsolete and you have superhuman hearing.” Cora gives Lydia a look that says, ‘you are so incredibly not helpful.’

///

Half an hour later Lydia questions her choices as she picks the lock on the storage shed at Red Meadow Stables. It takes so much longer than it does at home, where her hands always keep still and her mind doesn’t drift to Cora half way across town breaking in to Lydia’s bedroom to get the pair of Argent comms devices Lydia keeps hidden in her sock drawer. Next time Cora is in Lydia’s bedroom, Lydia wants to be there. The lock finally clicks open and Lydia creeps into the shed, flashlight held firmly at her side.

 

A horse whinnies like a scream and Lydia almost jumps out of her skin. She takes a few deep breaths, telling herself that it’s nothing. Horses are afraid of plastic bags. This is such a bad idea; she needs to stop falling for snarky girls with bad ideas. She runs the beam of light over the shelves that line the walls looking for bridles. The light sweeps over boxes of brushes, a pile of saddle blankets, and various things that Lydia can’t identify until she finally finds a hook with a few bridles hanging from it. She wedges the flashlight under her arm so she can hold the bridles with both hands. With uncertain fingers she inspects the leather. The shed door creaks open, Lydia whips around. Her flashlight illuminates a pair of long, muscular legs.

 

“What are you doing?” the person asks.

 

Lydia grabs the flashlight in her hands again and shifts the beam up until she can see Maeve’s face. Lydia’s grip on the flashlight tightens, she stands a little straighter. “Breaking and entering,” she answers.

 

“I can see that.” Maeve takes a few steps toward Lydia. “No medication is kept on the premises.”

 

Lydia frowns then adjusts her hair. “Oh, well, I’ll go then.” She tries to push past Maeve, but Maeve stops her.

 

“Wait, have I caught you breaking in here before?” she asks.

 

Lydia’s heart pounds wildly. “No, this is my first time.”

 

Maeve’s eyes narrow, her cold grip on Lydia’s shoulder _hurts_. “I know you.”

 

“Because I’m a redhead,” Lydia insists, trying her best to sound flippant through the blatant lie. “Dr. Hewstone’s 2003 study found that red hair causes a face-recognition-deficit in others.”

 

Maeve shakes her head. “No,” she pauses, “you’re friends with Cora, you were at Smith’s tonight.”

 

“You know Cora? What a small world. Since we have a mutual friend you should probably let me go,” Lydia suggests.

 

Maeve’s grip tightens again, and Lydia can’t tell if her shoulder is numb with pain or cold. She screams, and wishes she could do anything but. Maeve recoils, letting go of Lydia’s aching shoulder. Lydia bolts, still screaming, out into a grassy field. Seconds later Maeve sprints across the grass and Lydia’s ten minute mile from freshman gym feels incredibly inadequate.

 

Before Maeve can reach Lydia a thunder of breaking wood stops them both where they stand. A Beacon County Sheriff’s Department patrol car swings wildly through the field, leaving a crumpled fence behind. Lydia takes off again, running toward the car. It slides to a stop and Cora tumbles out in her beta form, teeth bared.

 

When Maeve spots Cora she turns and starts running toward the forest, sliding into her horse-form between long strides. Cora charges after her on all fours. For a few moments Lydia leans against the car, catching her breath. She wipes her eyes dry on the back of her wrist and clenches her fists until they still. Composed, she runs back to the shed where she selects a bridle and handful of lead rope then follows the sound of wolfish groans and eerie whinnies into the forest.

 

Lydia curses their luck, wishing they’d found Maeve _after_ they had the Argent comms sets on and tested. As she stumbles forward, the forest grows denser and more bark has been freshly wrenched from the trees to expose claw swipes of wood sticky with sap. Her eyes have yet to adapt to the lack of light so Lydia brushes her hand over the bark of each tree as she passes. The unusual pattern on one tree makes her stop. She runs her hand over it again. The cuts are shaky but deliberate. Lydia drops to her hands and knees feeling around the base of the tree, but she can’t find anything amongst the leaves.

 

Frustrated with Cora for taking the time to do something so _pointless_ she stares up through the trees, into the velvet sky. A dark shape waves past the moon in a soft wind above her head. Lydia pulls herself to her feet and yanks it down. A smile spreads over her face and she shoves the comms headset over her ears. “Cora you genius!” she breathes.

 

“Thanks,” a tinny facsimile of Cora’s voice pants in Lydia’s ear.

 

With renewed vigour, Lydia launches herself through the trees, fingers barely scraping the bark of the trees she passes. “Listen, I have a plan,” she tells Cora.

 

“I was counting on it,” Cora whispers back.

 

Lydia’s smile widens. “I have some leads that I’m going to span between trees. I’ll need you to move her toward them.”

 

“You can’t trip her,” Cora huffs, “if she’s in pain she’ll go human and we won’t be able to get the bridle on her.”

 

“Obviously. Which is why we’re going to corral her. I’ll get the bridle on her while you distract her.” Lydia starts looping the leather leads around a series of sturdy trunks, describing the location to Cora as she works. Next, she readies the bridle so they can get it on as quickly as possible.

 

Lydia waits what feels like an eternity, her entire body tense, before Maeve and Cora come crashing toward her. With a thunder of hooves Maeve runs directly into the trap. With grace that Lydia would have admired if she wasn’t bubbling with rage, Maeve jumps over the last lead rope and back out into the forest.

 

Cora curses before she rips the bark off the nearest tree with repeated swipes of her claws.

 

“Hey,” Lydia comes over and puts her hand on Cora’s shoulder. “Stop that. This can still work if she doesn’t have a run up. She won’t be able to jump over if you can chase her in around a corner.”

 

“Of course I can,” Cora mumbles, giving the tree one final, unenthusiastic swipe before she takes off into the forest after Maeve’s disappearing form.

 

Lydia settles at a base of a tree to wait again. “Warn me when you’re coming my way again, we’ll have to act fast.”

 

“Fine,” Cora barks back, mostly out of breath.

 

Lydia braids a few small sections of the underside of her hair and goes over irregular Latin verb conjugations as she waits. Half way through the subjunctive conjugation of volō, Cora pants, “Get ready,” in Lydia’s ear.

 

Lydia shoots to her feet, the bridle in her hand. As more time passes, she becomes keenly aware of how silly she must look, knees bent with an unbuckled bridle in one hand.

 

“Okay, really coming now,” Cora’s voice crackles, followed shortly by, “fuck, no no no no.”

 

Maeve goes galloping by the corral, laughing. Such a human sound coming from horse makes Lydia shiver. Seconds later Cora explodes past, mumbling curses under her breath.

 

Then the forest around Lydia stills again. After a few moments, she leans against a tree, unbraiding her hair. She slowly becomes aware of the chill in the night air. Wind rushes by, knocking the branches of a nearby tree against the trunk rhythmically.

 

Someone, probably Cora, lets out an animal snort not too far away. Lydia looks to her left, toward the noise. Then someone growls to Lydia’s right, she sees Cora, out of breath and half human loping toward her. Her left shoulder feels suddenly cold. She turns, and finds the kelpie grinning impossibly and blowing cold air down Lydia’s neck.

 

At first Lydia’s entire body freezes with terror, then instinct takes over. She whips her hand out, grabs Maeve’s impossibly cold upper lip twists. Her hand only stings for a few seconds before it loses all feeling. Maeve stands completely rigid in front of Lydia, her expression equine and blank.

 

Cora screams Lydia’s name and stumbles to her side. With her left hand Lydia tosses the bridle to Cora and orders her to put it on Maeve.

 

“Your hand!” Cora pleads as her shaking hands fix the buckles tightly around Maeve’s face.

 

“You can worry about that once you’ve fixed that bridle!” Lydia orders despite the growing pain in her right arm making her eyes sting.

 

Cora grunts and tightens the cheek piece. She gives the browband an investigative tug, takes the reins firmly in her hand then studies Lydia’s hand. “Are you stuck?”

 

Lydia gasps with pain, but her fingers wiggle when she asks it of them. Slowly, she pulls her hand away from Maeve’s muzzle. Cora quickly shuffles off her hoodie and wraps it carefully around Lydia’s swollen red hand. “Your hand’s been frostnipped,” Cora explains. “Let’s get to the road. Do you have your phone?” She leads the eerily placid Maeve slowly toward the stables.

 

For a few moments Lydia watches Maeve’s head bob as she walks then she fishes through her pockets until she finds her cell and dials. When the sheriff answers he sounds tired but relieved; Lydia can hear a coffee machine burble in the background. She shuffles to catch up with Cora, but doesn’t until Cora has already tied Maeve to a fencepost.

 

“Sheriff Stilinski’s on his way,” Lydia says, she stands well away from Maeve.

 

Cora walks over to Lydia. She takes Lydia’s wrapped hand in hers, inspecting the knots. “You should go home. You don’t need to go to the ER, but you should see your doctor as soon as possible. You’ll have to go through re-warming therapy. It’ll hurt _a lot_ but your doctor should give you painkillers,” she says to Lydia’s hand. “Don’t massage it. It might feel good, but it’ll just cause further damage.”

 

“I’ll wait until the sheriff gets here. You shouldn’t be alone with her.” Cora shakes her head, so Lydia raises her eyebrows and crosses her arms. Her hand stings, she winces.

 

Cora rolls her eyes. “Fine, but we’ll sit in Derek’s car, with the heating on.”

 

When the car heats up enough that Lydia doesn’t feel cold anymore she doesn’t pull away from where they have curled up against each other. Cora rubs her hands along the arm of Lydia’s injured hand. “I didn’t know banshees had hypnosis skills,” she says conversationally.

 

Lydia furrows her brow, pushing the intense awareness of Cora’s warm fingers rubbing circles on her body out of her mind. “I don’t. Banshees don’t as a rule.”

 

“You do. You used them on her,” Cora motions toward Maeve by tilting her head. Her hands are too busy making Lydia long for more and for sleep.

 

“Oh,” Lydia laughs. Cora stops petting Lydia’s arm. Lydia stops laughing and continues more seriously. “I used my hand as a twitch.” Cora gives Lydia a confused look. “It’s device used in horse care. It pulls the horse’s upper lip which releases endorphins.”

 

Cora laughs and her hand drops back onto Lydia’s arm. “You got her horse-high?”

 

“I didn’t!” Lydia insists, trying to remain serious, but Cora’s laughter spills into her too. “It supposedly has a calming effect, _not_ a hallucinogenic one.”

 

And Cora roars with laughter. Lydia doesn’t understand what Cora finds so funny. Her brain dizzy with exhaustion, Cora’s laughter makes Lydia laugh even harder. Soon they’re a shaking heap. Faces too close; bodies too warm. Their noses bump. Cora licks her lips and closes her eyes. Lydia tilts her head, about to press her lips to Cora’s. Cora pulls away suddenly. Lydia scoffs and raises her brows. “Derek’s coming,” Cora mumbles. She rubs her arms and avoids Lydia’s gaze.

 

“Cora! Did you drive my car through a fence?!” Derek shouts before Lydia can protest. The suspension squeaks under his weight when he leans his hands on the hood.

 

Cora locks eyes with Derek. “Yes,” she says, it sounds like ‘obviously.’

 

Derek tilts his head and squints at Cora. She rolls down the window. “We caught her,” Cora points her entire arm at the fence post where Maeve still stands, chewing lazily on some grass. “You’re welcome.”

 

Derek’s eyes dart in Maeve’s direction, before he throws his hands in the air and goes straight to the passenger side door. “This isn’t funny Cora. I told you to go home,” he accuses. Before Cora has a chance to retort, Derek spots Lydia. “And you didn’t take Lydia home either!?”

 

“I’m twenty four, not twelve!” Cora shouts.

 

“Cora Miriam Hale!” Derek shouts back then he yelps, straightens and turns to face the sheriff.

 

Sheriff Stilinski side-eyes Derek furrows his brow then walks over to Cora’s open window. “Great work you two. You’ve really helped.”

 

“By endangering themselves,” Lydia can barely hear Derek mutter.

 

Lydia yawns. “Do you want me to drive you home?” Cora asks her.

 

“Do you need us?” Lydia asks the sheriff.

 

“With the bridle on her, she’s just like a normal horse?” he asks. Lydia nods. “No, then I think Derek and I can take care of everything.”

 

Lydia turns to Cora. “Good. Would you please drive me home? I’d offer to drive but,” she holds up her huge, hoodie-wrapped hand and shrugs. “I think that might be dangerous.”

 

“Sure, I’ll get you home,” Cora says.

 

“It’s _my_ car,” Derek mutters to himself.

 

“The _department’s_ car actually,” the Sheriff mumbles before slapping his hand against the roof. “Thanks again. I’ll be in touch to get your statements in the next couple of days. Sleep well.” Then he strides off toward Maeve. Derek hesitates for a few seconds, then curses and jogs off after the sheriff.

 

The sun starts to rise during the drive to Lydia’s. They both stay silent the entire way, and the air feels sticky with what almost happened. Usually Lydia would never allow it, but exhaustion means she can barely keep her eyes open, let alone hold a conversation.

 

When Cora pulls into the Lydia’s mom’s driveway the curtains are all still drawn, and the alarm system blinks happily above the front door. “Thanks. This was fun,” Lydia says as she steps out of the car.

 

“Most people don’t describe frostbite as fun,” Cora mutters, smiling a little. Lydia chuckles, gives Cora a small wave then starts walking toward the house. Cora starts the car, and Lydia wants to get in her bed as quickly as possible, but doesn’t want to leave Cora on such an awkward note. “Remember to talk to your doctor about rewarming,” Cora calls then she speeds off into the early morning. Lydia bites her lower lip.

///

Lydia puts down her pen, flexes her hand and purses her lips. “Your hand not better yet?” the sheriff asks.

 

Lydia shakes her head, “It’s fine.” She picks up her pen again and signs her name to her statement with a flourish.

 

Outside Sheriff Stilinski’s office Lydia flicks her eyes around until she finds Derek about to fill a mug with coffee. She strides up to him, heels clacking with deliberate ominousness. “Good morning,” she chirps. Derek freezes, the carafe tilted so the coffee just doesn’t spill out into his mug. “The polite response is to say good morning back, and maybe ask me how I’m doing,” she continues after he remains frozen.

 

He puts the carafe back in the machine, having not poured himself a cup. “Good morning Lydia, how are you?” he asks, his tone mocking.

 

“Very well, thank you,” Lydia answers, refusing to indulge his sarcasm. “And you?”

 

Derek snorts and crosses his arms. “What do you want?”

 

Lydia groans and pulls a slip of paper and a pen out of her purse, she scribbles on it, then passes it to Derek. He holds it at a distance, like something that smells terrible. “It’s my number, please give it to Cora. Tell her I'd like her to call me,” Lydia insists, exasperated.

 

Derek raises his eyebrows and pushes the bit of paper back in Lydia’s hand. “Tell her yourself.” Lydia glares up at him and opens her mouth, but Derek speaks before she can. “She’s at the front desk, denying that she only came in because she knew you were giving your statement today and pretending to read.” He sounds incredibly bored.

 

“Oh.” Lydia only gapes for a few seconds. She throws her shoulders back and stands straighter. “Thank you Derek. Have a nice day,” she says, not waiting for his reply before she marches to the front desk. As promised, she finds Cora slouching in visitors’ chair distractedly turning the pages of a worn paperback a little too fast.

 

“Good morning,” Lydia says.

 

Cora doesn’t startle, she sits up and puts the book, pages open on the chair next to her. “Hi Lydia,” she says uncertainly.

 

“Hi.” Lydia drops into the seat next to Cora and bites her lower lip.

 

Cora stares at Lydia’s hand, “It looks good,” she says, “almost healed.”

 

Lydia flexes it, “Healthy as ever.”

 

For a few moments the silence feels thick as paste; Lydia’s skin crawls. “The sheriff said Maeve claims that kelpies have to eat people to survive,” she murmurs. “Which, according to every reliable source on the subject, is bullshit.”

 

Cora nods slowly, not looking at Lydia. “Obviously.” Cora shrugs, “she’s been traveling through California working at stables and _eating_ people.”

 

“I didn’t know that,” Lydia says, brow furrowed. She pauses. “Is Derek still letting you look through his files?”

 

Cora ducks her head and lowers her voice. “He’s hiding them in a box under his bed, he thinks I don’t know.” Lydia snorts and smiles. Cora leans in even closer and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Do you want to look at them?”

 

Lydia chews her lower lip. “Actually, I do.”

 

Cora beams. “Come over,” she says too quickly then adds, “I mean, when you’re not busy.”

 

Lydia looks at the calendar on her phone; Stiles expects her at his apartment for their monthly revision of the bestiary in fifteen minutes. “I’m free now. For a little while anyway.”

 

“Great.” Cora gets up, “I’m going to tell Derek I’m going home,” she explains before walking off. Lydia texts Stiles to say she’s running late, his response accuses her of not having better things to do.

 

They each take their own car; Lydia doesn’t want to think about it as an exit strategy. In case this goes as badly as the kiss that wasn’t in Derek’s car. Instead she thinks how odd it seems that Cora has her own car. That she doesn’t always drive around in Derek’s borrowed patrol car. Small, competent Cora drives a small, reliable car.

 

In Cora’s apartment they each take a side of the dining table. Lydia places her car keys next to the mug of coffee Cora made for her.

 

“It looks pretty damning, I mean, she’s even admitted to the murders,” Lydia wrinkles her nose as she flips through the file, “and the small animals from the pool.” She shudders, “But you think there is more to it.”

 

Cora nods. “She keeps getting new jobs after she moves, someone has to be helping her.”

 

“Other kelpies?” Lydia suggests with a bored shrug.

 

Cora shakes her head, “That’s what Derek and the sheriff think. But her family in Massachusetts reported her missing ten years ago. Since kelpies are born, not bitten, I don’t think packs would have any members that aren’t family.”

 

“A group of kelpies is called a haras, not a pack,” Lydia corrects.

 

‘Is that really important?’ Cora asks silently with a combination of furrowed brow and frown. “She barely talks to anyone; phone, email, nothing.” Lydia looks down at the seven texts from Stiles asking where she is and contemplates answering. She fiddles with her car keys instead. “Her internet history was almost all a website about X-Men,” Cora continues, her voice a note more desperate.

 

Lydia looks up and smiles indulgently. “So she reads comic books.”

 

“But she doesn’t! The police didn’t find any when they searched her room at the stables.”

 

Snorting, Lydia shakes her head. “So you’re accusing her of being a _fake geek girl_?”

 

Cora glares at her. “No, it’s just weird.” She groans, “hold on, I’ll show you.” She leaves the room.

 

The messages from Stiles have increased exponentially, so Lydia sends: Calm down, I’ll be there soon. When Cora returns, she has a laptop balanced on her upper arm. She drops it on the table between them with the browser displaying a forum.

 

Lydia glances up for a moment, then back down at Stiles’s indignant reply. She doesn’t finish reading, “That’s Bacon’s Cipher,” she mutters, pulling the laptop toward her and opening Wikipedia in another window, arranging the windows next to each other.

 

“What?”

 

Lydia sighs and indicates that Cora should pull her chair close so they can both see. She points at the screen, “The alternating capital and lowercase letters in the middle of words, it’s a code. Each group of five characters represents a letter based on which characters are formatted differently. Five lowercase letters is A, four lowercase letters followed by an uppercase one is B, and so on.”

 

Cora bites her lower lip, “I thought that was just how people write on the internet.”

 

Lydia shakes her head and mutters to herself, eyes darting over the screen as she decodes. After she finishes the current thread she looks at other parts of the forum. “How disgusting,” she says finally. “It’s a theriormorph supremacist forum.” Cora doesn’t just roll her eyes but her entire head, so Lydia explains, “Basically Stormfront for shapeshifters.”

 

Cora pulls her lips tight. “There are a lot of those,” she mutters. “The Alpha of Ennis’s pack, before Ennis, was one of them.”

 

“So maybe someone from that pack helped Maeve get a job and get settled in,” Lydia suggests. Cora’s breath feels warm on Lydia’s forearms, she leans into Cora slightly.

 

“They’re all dead,” Cora says absently, before picking up her phone and calling Derek.

 

“Please go do drugs and have unprotected sex, anything but read my fucking files!” Lydia hears him shout at Cora.

 

“No,” Cora says with a note of finality. “Maeve’s support network is from a shapeshifter supremacist website.”

 

“Except she never visited one,” Derek says loud enough for Lydia to hear.

 

“The X-Men website is written in Bacon code, it’s actually a hate-site,” Cora sputters.

 

“Here, let me.” Lydia takes the phone from Cora. “Hi Derek. It’s Lydia. The website is written in Bacon’s cipher.”

 

Derek takes a single deep breath in then releases it. “Lydia put my files away. You and Cora go to the movies or something and stop talking about meat.”

 

“Bacon’s cipher is a form of steganography developed by Sir Francis Bacon, the philosopher, not the figurative painter of the same name. The only meat in this conversation is whatever you have instead of a brain.”

 

Cora straightens, at first Lydia thinks Cora coughed, but instead Cora huffs small, bark-like laughs.

 

“Looking through Maeve’s activity on the website will probably lead you to any accomplices she had in Beacon Hills. You’re welcome,” Lydia says with false cheeriness.

 

“That’s incredibly helpful, and I hate you,” Derek bites back, his tone just as sickly.

 

“It’s mutual,” Lydia says just before Derek hangs up. She turns to Cora. “That was exhilarating; does Derek have any more work we can do better than him?”

 

Cora laughs, “What about Stiles?” Lydia lifts an eyebrow, Cora sighs. “He keeps texting you,” she continues.

 

“Oh, that’s really not important. He needs to ditch the habit he has of using me as a mental crutch.” Lydia picks up her phone and texts Stiles: I’m not coming. I’ve got something better to do.

 

“Okay, I’ll go get the other files,” Cora says, as if she doesn’t quite believe Lydia. She takes a few cautious steps then jogs out of the room.

 

Lydia’s phone immediately starts to ring; she turns it to silent and stuffs it in her purse.

 

Cora returns, dropping a beaten up cardboard box with ‘Probably Supernatural’ written on it on the table. She slides back into her spot next to Lydia, so close that they bump elbows.

 

Lydia grabs a file from the top and places it on the table between them. It concerns a string of garden vandalism in an affluent neighbourhood, where the flower beds were destroyed and obscene garden gnomes left at the scene. All the gnomes taken into police custody as evidence disappeared within 24 hours. A post it note near the end has ‘Goblin?’ written on it.

 

Cora snorts, pulls the note off and crumples it in her hand. “That’s wrong,” she mutters.

 

“It’s obviously a group of,” Lydia begins. “Kobalos,” Lydia and Cora finish in unison. They look at each other. Cora takes a deep breath and moves her hand to Lydia’s arm.

 

Lydia laughs into the silence heavy with possibility, twisting her hair in her fingers. “I don’t know whether to ask you on a date, or to start a supernatural detective agency with you.”

 

Cora’s face becomes very serious; Lydia fixes her teasing smile in place and braces herself for rejection. “I think you can, and should, do both.” Then she leans in and kisses Lydia hungrily.

 

Lydia thinks she might never stop smiling.

///

 

Lydia wakes up alone, an unusual occurrence in recent weeks. Actually, she had never woken up alone in Cora’s bed before. Wednesday morning Cora had woken Lydia by shaking her shoulder, and they stayed under the warm comforter for another hour, mumbling and kissing, before Scott had called about a possible Red Cap attack and they had grumbled and stolen a few more kisses before driving to Scott’s.

 

She stretches and resolves to go to the kitchen in search of Cora. Remembering Derek, she pads to Cora’s dresser and pulls open the drawer where Cora keeps the clothes she sleeps and works out in. Lydia selects an Abraham Lincoln High School JV girls’ volleyball t-shirt and the only pair of sweatpants--Lydia’s hips wouldn’t fit into any of Cora’s colourful collection of tiny shorts.

 

When she opens Cora’s door she’s hit with the smell of pancakes with a hint of something sweet and unfamiliar. Not the blueberries Lydia’s mom sometimes adds, her dad’s signature over-ripe banana slices, or even Mr. Argent’s chocolate chips that make Lydia miss sleepovers with Allison. She should book a trip to New York soon.

 

“Good morning,” Derek calls from the kitchen.

 

“Morning,” Lydia replies once she enters the room. She looks for Cora and can’t find her.

 

Derek stares at Lydia’s--well Cora’s actually--t-shirt, a little colour rises in in cheeks and he turns back to the stove. “Cora’s gone to the store. Apparently pancakes without maple syrup is a sin,” he grumbles, flipping a fluffy pancake roughly the size of his fist.

 

“It is,” Lydia informs him. “I’ll make coffee.” Lydia stands on her tiptoes to pull the French press out of the top cabinet and Derek hands her the bag of coffee grounds from the fridge.

 

“So what’s the secret ingredient?” Lydia asks, trying to lure Derek out of his shell.

 

Derek turns to her, grinning. “Shredded pear. My mom’s recipe.” Smiling back, Lydia deposits a warm mug of coffee--no sugar, lots of almond milk--next to the slowly rising mound of pancakes.

 

At that moment Cora returns, saving Lydia from attempting the careful balancing act that is talking to Derek about his family, not that Lydia minds trying. “You’re awake,” Cora beams and discards the shopping on the counter.

 

“It’s that kind of observational skill that makes you such a great investigator,” Lydia teases before she presses a mug of coffee--one sugar, a glug of milk--into Cora’s hands, brushing her fingers with intent.

 

Cora rolls her eyes. Accepting the coffee she drapes her arms over Lydia’s shoulders and presses their legs together. She mumbles, “You’re terrible,” into Lydia’s lips before kissing her. Lydia grins into the kiss, letting her lips part and her hands slide down Cora’s back. Cora makes a soft noise and runs a hand through Lydia’s still bed messed hair.

 

Suddenly Cora pulls away, a growl rumbling in her chest. Lydia pushes her eyebrows together, letting their limbs decide for themselves who they belong to. “Derek! You’re such a tool,” Cora grumbles. Derek has Cora’s coffee mug in his hand and a sour expression on his face.

 

“You were going to spill. I mopped yesterday,” Derek whines, putting Cora’s mug down next to his own. “Besides, pancakes are almost done, so how about you two stop acting like horny teenagers and set the table.”

 

Cora rolls her eyes; Derek wrinkles his nose in response and makes a strange puffing noise. But Cora seems to understand, picking up her coffee and three plates and leaving for the dining table. Lydia grabs the all-important maple syrup, cutlery and her own milky coffee before following Cora out of the kitchen.

 

“I hope you don’t mind, I answered your phone this morning. Allison called three times in half an hour, so I thought it might be important,” Cora says as she sets three places at the small round table.

 

“I mind,” Lydia says seriously. “You should have woken me or left it.”

 

“Oh.” Cora stops dealing out forks. She looks up at Lydia, blinking a few times, her face serious. “Sorry, I’ll do that next time.”

 

And Lydia knows she will. “What did Allison say?” she asks, placing the last two forks in their places. Then she reaches across the table and pokes the still blinking Cora in the side.

 

Cora twists out of Lydia’s reach and accuses her with her index finger. “Hey, no tickling!” she breathes, barely concealing mirth with false seriousness.

 

“Then tell me what Allison said,” Lydia insists, laughing a little.

 

Cora’s expression becomes serious again. “The hunters know what we’re doing. You and me.”

 

“Dating?” Lydia teases.

 

Cora raises her eyebrows. “Investigating. They’ve been asking Allison how to get in touch with you so we can help them. But Allison’s smart, she pretended she didn’t know what they were talking about.”

 

“It might not be a bad idea,” Lydia says more seriously. She puts her hand on top of Cora’s, the one clutching a knife a bit too hard. Cora’s grip loosens. “I mean there are only so many supernatural crimes in Beacon Hills. We could consult for people other than Derek and Stiles’s dad, like real detectives.”

 

“I will _not_ help hunters.”

 

“Of course. We can use Allison’s connections to offer our services only to non-hunters who are in the supernatural know. Okay?”

 

Cora nods slowly. “But really, no hunters. Not even ‘good’ hunters.”

 

“Never,” Lydia agrees. She drops down in a chair and Cora falls in across from her. “This is exciting.” She stretches her hands across the table and squeezes Cora’s hands again.

 

Cora grins, “It is.”

 

“If you two are getting married, I think it’s too soon,” Derek says, all mock seriousness. He places a tower of pancakes on the table between them before taking an empty chair.

 

“Ha ha.” Cora leans her head back and squints at Derek. “You’re not funny and you forgot the cinnamon.”

 

“Use your eyes.” Derek reaches out and pulls a shaker of cinnamon out from under a pile of placemats. He drops it next to Cora’s plate. “What’s exciting?”

 

“We’re going to offer our supernatural investigation services to people outside Beacon Hills,” Lydia chimes as she pulls a pancake off the pile and transfers it to her plate.

 

Cora does the same then douses hers in cinnamon and maple syrup. She licks her index finger clean, then says, “but not to hunters.”

 

Derek frowns. “I still get priority though, right?” He fixes Cora with a serious look. “I’m your brother.”

 

Cora snorts. “As long as there isn’t something more dangerous or urgent happening somewhere else, we’ll make sure you only have to use your wolf senses to be extra good at solving normal human crimes. Right Lydia?” Lydia nods through delicious a mouthful of syrup soaked pancake.

 

Derek beams before shoving a dry forkful of pancake in his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> I have taken all the liberties with the Kelpie myth. So yeah, please don’t treat this as a mythology lesson or anything.
> 
> I originally wanted to call this _Lydia & Cora’s supernatural detective agency_ but I thought that might give too much away, I’m still not sure if I made the right decision. Current title is from talking in your sleep by the romantics.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://apictureofagull.tumblr.com/) if that’s your thing.


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